Making music
by Anatomy Melancholia
Summary: Three friends play catch-up and Guillermo does some heavy thinking. Involves guitars and blood.


Guillermo figures that it has to be the vampire senses that keep him so alert to the drone of electricity because all the humans seem able to block it out after a while. He also figures that's not strictly true - it's become a bit comforting, like a lullaby only he pays attention to. If LA ever had a power cut, he's sure he'd be the first to know because the song would change.

Hansen and Bros., Funeral Directors, folded more than thirty years ago, but Guillermo still gets the urge to detail a little eye make-up or lipstick on one of his corpses. It's part-way between a sick fascination and a little tender, loving care. He knows they're not gonna rise up and do the salsa with him or anything, but who better than the undead to feel the kinship with the dead? After all, dust to dust, ashes to ashes, and all that. Guillermo and his kind are just a few years and a mutant virus behind the mortals, that's all.

This is what working with dead people does to you. You start to construct empathy and bonds with people who have no idea you're slicing and dicing them. That's another half-lie because Guillermo's not above tasting the merchandise before tagging and bagging it for sale.

Yeah, he's given up trying to define it, just like he avoids trying to define his relationships with the other vamps. It's a solitary existence and you take your happiness where you can. So he talks to them, like plants or pets or friends; there's a whole repository of Guillermo's secrets buried all over Los Angeles county. If it came down to it, it's not walls with ears he's ever worried about, it's more the after-life and what those corpses could say where he can't hear them. But what the heck. If they come to him on a slab, it's usually because they're shoved out of existence. And if his chatter becomes coffe-table conversation for a newbie spirit, he can live with that.

The things that make life interesting are still there and tonight he and his right hand have a date...with the sweetest set of six strings this side of several borders. Mick disagrees, naturally; he has that i_gringo/i_ appetite for the watered-down blues. And Guillermo grins when he says that to his newest corpse, as he slides the body-block effortlessly into place, because Mick's not bad, for a white blues player.

It's not long till midnight tonight.

--

"No no, man. Son clave, for Christ's sake. You gotta play a son clave in the fourth bar." Guillermo's leaning forward, guitar cradled between chest and thigh, just like he's seen his grandfather sit, only he's not wielding a strap and Mick's not a thirteen year old boy.

Mick's grimace is tinged with frustration as he moves stubborn fingers across the chords one more time. It's been a while since he's played, and for the moment he's having trouble remembering why he's bothered. The guitar feels hot and unfamiliar on his lap, but he's too embarrassed to stand up. He shifts his knee slightly, opening up his diaphraghm and takes a few deep breaths. "Got it," he says finally.

The reason he's bothered is gazing unashamedly around the apartment, whistling softly to himself, trumpet tapping in beat against his leg. Collie's smiling, waiting for Mick's hands to remember back twenty years, and then to forget the cool jazz he'd usually played. "Play ball, boys," he says with a quick glance through the wood freize at the city lights.

A few moments and they try again. Two guitars and a trumpet is an odd combination but three friends and music is a great one, so it balances out. They'll switch between the Spanish ballads Guillermo misses from home and hand-writes chords for on scattered sheets, and spin through cycles of bebop and hot jazz because that's where Mick and Collie have their hearts set.

Guillermo's sure the never-ending arguments over which style is superior will be forthcoming. Eventually. Right now he's storing up another bit of joy with his fingertips.

--

The margaritas are sloshing around in the glass jug, and Collie's sweet, sweet medium-swing version of 'Satin Doll' sweeps through the apartment. Mick's tried to hide all evidence of human occupation but the guy has actual food in his fridge and no amount of cleaning is gonna wipe the smell of human woman from the couch. Guillermo, in his turn, is trying to wipe the grin off his face but he knows all about Beth and Collie's already dropped enough hints about the smell of fresh produce. Thank God there's actual limes, sitting bright and heavy against the apples in Mick's kitchen. There's no getting away from the happiness in the apartment, Guillermo thinks momentarily. It should be straight tequila in the glasses, but Collie likes his alcohol watered down when he's in the zone. Trumpet players have their quirks, just like the rest of 'em. Right now Collie's wiping off his mouthpiece in the silence, glasses slightly askew as usual. He glances up, eyes brightening at the sight of the jug, and starts to croon:

"Baby, shall we start out drinkin'?

Careful, amigo, it's slippin'..."

It's cheesy and entirely the sort of thing one expects around a vamp who can recite the liberetto from i_HMS Pinafore/i_ while half-drunk.

Mick laughs and leans back further in his chair, scotch in one hand and sheet music in the other.

"That's terrible, man," Guillermo says as he deliberately sets the sweating jug down onto the dark wood centre table.

"You want to use a coaster there?" Mick asks pointedly.

"What are you, a girl?" Sure, it's slightly vindictive but the thought of Mick scrubbing at the stain is pretty funny. Still, Guillermo reaches for spare papers to slide under the jug anyway.

Mick looks up from the scores long enough to snort and retort, "Yeah, real mature." And he goes back to studying the sheets; only a few of Mick's friends can tell but it's not professional interest in his eyes at all.

Collie laughs at both of them because the games are so obvious. He says, "Pour me one, G." and turns to Mick, who is still holding the sheet music. "What do you think?" Collie asks quietly.

Mick glances up, more guarded now that he's got to put his emotions into words. "There's no mistaking it," he says finally. "You can't miss those 't's anywhere." Then he grins and shrugs. "What do you want me to say? You have Charlie Shavers' handwriting all over it! How much do you want for it, bugle boy?"

Collie stares at him bemused. "Even _if_ I was selling, whatcha gonna do with it? Lock it away in a filing cabinet again?"

"Not this time." Mick stretches out one long leg. "I'd probably frame it and have Mahalia keep it company in the office."

The big red hankerchief Collie's using to wipe his forehead is a borrowed affectation; he doesn't sweat in this apartment, not at the temperature Mick's got it set at, but old habits die hard. "That's good company," he says, winking in turn. "It's about time you stopped hidin' from the legacy."

"Vampire pride," Mick retorts wryly.

Collie laughs, big and booming, and adjusts his glasses. "I meant Coraline's cash," he replies, looking around. "It's a hell of a place. You did it up swell too. That wood pattern over your windows is really something."

Guillermo is smiling into his glass and Mick drinks up the rest of his scotch, before answering unevenly, "Yeah, it- it seemed like a good idea."

"She's gone, the money's got nobody else--" Collie murmurs, and cuts the rest of the sentence off with a strong pull at his margarita. There's no salt on the rim but the alcohol and the tart lemon buzzes on his tongue. "Two grand, easy, for the score."

Mick head drops forward slightly like he's thinking. "Sounds a bit steep."

Now Collie's holding on to the score again and from where Guillermo's sitting, he can see firm scrawls all across the pages. Shavers, he thinks, Charlie Shavers; you can't mistake those 'T's anywhere. "I'll trade you two weeks of deliveries for it," he pipes up in the background.

They're both staring at him so Guillermo presses his advantage. "A month. I know the New Orleans contact - he owes me a couple." He smirks when Collie looks at him thoughtfully and says, "Done".

Mick gets as far as, "G--," and Guillermo cuts him off at the starting-line. "Hey, you snooze, you lose. You had the score while I was in the kitchen." Tequila flows in his accelerated bloodstream. "Plus, what's two grand? You make more than that in a day, easy."

"But women are ex_pen_sive 'cause nothin' says I love you like buying them stuff," Collie says, slapping his knee for emphasis, and Mick looks away, trying to quell the embarrassed grin on his face.

"New girlfriends are the worst," Guillermo agrees. "And with a human you can't take over a bag of blood of an evening. It's gotta be wine, food, expensive stuff."

Collie hitches a shoulder nonchalantly. "I like staying in and screwing, myself."

Mick and Guillermo meet each other's eyes briefly before they roar with laughter. "Yeah, yourself sounds about right," Mick retorts.

Mick and Guillermo meet each other's eyes briefly before they roar with laughter. "Yeah, yourself sounds about right," Mick retorts.

Collie manages to turn the tables nicely. "So does your girlfriend like musicians?" he asks Mick, eyes bleaching and his teeth lengthen just to drive the point home.

It's moments like this when Guillermo is reminded of why he's glad Collie moved to New Orleans and only visits occasionally. Mick's got that devil-may-care thoughtful look on his face, usually a prelude to his saying something cutting, which is fine because words don't kill...or his beating the crap out of you. Now that hasn't happened in years because Mick takes it out on the bad guys. But some days Guillermo itches to give him one of those lead-based blow-up clowns from the 80's.

Mick squirms in the the half-shadows of the room. It feels slightly voyeuristic because he can smell Beth and he's remembering the times he's sat in this chair and watched her on the couch. "No, she doesn't."

"Got a flutist's mouth though," Guillermo interjects and Collie's wolf-whistle is an enthusiastic D. "Tell me more," he says, leaning eagerly towards Guillermo.

Mick pushes himself to his feet and sets off for the top floor. "Don't mind me..." he mutters sarcastically. "I gotta take a leak."

Guillermo finds himself thinking that Beth has done more to calm Mick in three months than anyone has in three decades.

"She good for him?" Collie asks when Mick has disappeared up the stairs.

Guillermo shrugs. "Who knows? It's Mick. If I had a dollar for every vampire I thought he couldn't resist and then..._nada_. Nothing."

"He's not a bad-looking guy," Collie acknowledges.

"Don't you start."

Collie's pasty-white cheeks blow out in a quick huff. "I'm just saying."

"Yeah, don't."

Mick and Collie are a few years apart, their musical repertoire slotting together easily, over which his straight rhythm is strident and heavy. But they've been doing this for almost nine years now, off and on. Guillermo's playing shifts between steady and swing with a fresh ease, Mick's learned how to give his tortured soul a much-needed airing and Collie's trumpet puts them both to shame.

"This girl is not like the others," Guillermo hears himself saying and the speculative look on the other man's face is about right for the situation.

Collie says, "What others? He hasn't had more than a one-night stand in longer than I've taken to go bagged. " His voice drops lower, to a sullen growl, "There hasn't been anyone since he killed _her_."

"Coraline came back," Guillermo starts and then wishes he hadn't because now there's margarita stains on Mick's couch and he'll probably get one hell of a cleaning bill tomorrow. Especially since he snapped up the Shavers score; Mick would call it payback.

"Back?" Collie whispers. "From where? She's--"

"In France." Mick's voice precedes him down the stairs. "I got it wrong," he says simply. "She wasn't dead. She came back for-- a couple months. Then she left for France."

Collie's gone more pasty-white than usual and his fingers tighten around the trumpet in his lap. "Jesus."

"Yeah," Mick says.

"Shit, man. What I just said...about Coraline's will..."

Mick looks in the direction of the kitchen before he focuses on Collie again. "You couldn't have known," he parrots and it seems to him that he's said this before, "I didn't even know."

Collie's gaze drifts somewhere nostalgic and very long ago.

Guillermo drinks because he never really knew Coraline but he's not sure whether he loves or hates her from the stories he's heard. Apparently she has that effect on people. He does know though that Coraline really did like musicians. Especially jazz players. He's pretty sure it's how Mick met Collie.

"Blood?" Mick asks hospitably.

"Make sure you use that stuff I brought. I got some O," Guillermo says, "And some B for the bugler."

Mick nods and heads towards the kitchen.

Collie's still in shock but he's got a wicked look in his eyes when he turns to Guillermo. "He's still drinking bagged?"

"I told you, man. It's Mick."

"Yeah, yeah." Collie looks over to where Mick is calmly pouring blood. "Jesus."

When it's Guillermo's turn to take a piss, Collie can't stop himself from asking about Coraline.

It's a sordid few moments and Mick leaves little of the story out. He stops short with the re-turning though and lets the assumption ride that the compound just wore off one day.

When he's done Collie says, "Beth must really be something. When do we get to meet her?"

"Are you writing a book or something?"

Guillermo's back by then though he lets the Beth-was-kidnapped-and-I-had-to-turn-back-to-save-her omission go past without a murmur. About Beth, though, he can't help himself. "Oh yeah, a blonde. Twenty-six."

"Twenty-seven," Mick says.

"Twenty-seven. Great hair. Great legs too."

"You don't say," Collie says to Guillermo, with interest.

"She comes by the morgue on cases - she works with the DA. Blood-thirsty human. Good fit with a vampire."

Collie's verdict is slightly damning. "And you're _still_ drinking bagged?" he says to Mick.

--

It's later, much later, and there's a significant number of glasses on the table now. Guillermo's migrated to the dinner table where he's poring over the score with a magnifying glass. Collie's stretched out on the couch and Mick has vanished on one of those case-related calls that comes up sometimes. He says it's not blonde Beth calling and they both know that work comes up sometimes. This time it's a wife sobbing over the phone for a few seconds, and Mick suddenly has somewhere to be. Divorce and infidelity cases are the worst but somehow Mick never complains about those.

Beth does call though, right before Mick heads out the door. It's obvious from the change in his voice. He's still listening to her when he leaves and...

The look they share is one between old friends.

"He's got it bad," Collie says, and Guillermo can understand why the trumpeter sounds so gleeful.

"Worst _I_'ve ever seen," Guillermo replies.

"So, a human?" It's almost tentative because Collie doesn't really want anyone to hear the doubt in his voice. Because he _is_ happy for Mick, but he still has to ask. "How'd she find out about us?"

"They uh, worked some cases together. He saved her life, she saved his. I guess she found out."

"And she likes the vamp perks? ...I wouldn't-a picked it with all Mick's 'I'm a monster'."

Guillermo realizes suddenly that once-in-a-while jam sessions are just that. It's hard to explain Mick St John's bond with the humans if you haven't seen it. Collie knows, but Collie has no _real_ idea. "You don't want to make me think about this, man. Come on. I've _seen_ him naked," he pleads, trying to lighten the mood.

"Almost like old times," Collie says. "It's good to be back."

"Don't take this the wrong way, man, but you picked a hell of a time to visit."

"Yeah yeah, fine. Right, enough talking. Let's get some music made."

The sun is beginning to curve above the horizon. They can't really see it is as the apartment faces south, but they feel it. The hibernation instinct is almost fierce for fledglings, now it's a simple niggle that daylight is approaching.

Collie chooses 'Suppertime' to wind down. Guillermo doesn't play. He's not a showman and he doesn't feel the need for the last note. He's content to listen and finish the rest of the O.


End file.
